A Tangled Web
by Windblownhair
Summary: A mysterious stranger moves in 221C. Where do her loyalties lie? Post "The Great Game," before any contact with Irene Adler. Friendship,adventure,suspense, and a good dose of Moriarty.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes was, by all accounts, a brilliant man. His ability to see the minutiae, to take small details and assemble them into a complete picture, was rivaled by none. However, his flat mate John Watson was also acutely aware of the areas in which he was less than brilliant. Specifically, social areas. For while Sherlock was as learned in the social niceties as anyone else, he frequently failed to see where they applied.

For instance, at that very moment, in the refrigerator, sat 15 eyeballs. Sherlock claimed to be studying the effect of various ocular diseases on how swiftly the eyes decayed. John was not entirely sure if this was actually true, or if Sherlock was just studying the effect on John's ability to eat left over takeaway. And just last month Sherlock had commented that Molly's vacation had turned her "brown as a nut, and rounder, too" whereupon Molly had cried and Sherlock recommended a course of anti-inflammatories and a heating pad. Molly had promptly cried harder.

Incidents like these made John wonder if Sherlock would ever end up with someone. For his part, Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to the fairer sex. Of course, he noticed them to deduce crimes, motives, and alibis. But merely to appreciate them as creatures, to find love or solace or company, Sherlock seemed completely uninclined. John would not be surprised if the idea of love had occurred to Sherlock long ago, but had been neatly dismissed as something that would distract him from his cases.

And then one day left John completely surprised. Sherlock had gone out for some take away Chinese food. John fervently hoped that this included food for him as well. Sherlock only managed to remember about half the time. Last time he had been so enamored of Bach's third cantata that he had rushed home to play it, leaving all the food behind.

But this time Sherlock returned, not only with an armful of food, but also with a beautiful young woman in tow. The woman was of average height, thin, with long dark hair that flowed pleasingly down her back. Her face was pretty and exotic. John immediately wondered what marvelous combination of ethnicities had produced the lovely creature, and then wondered if Sherlock was interested in her for precisely the same reason.

As she smiled and introduced herself, John felt the blood rushing through his head. He just managed to mutter,"How'd you do?" as his cheeks flushed bright red. Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, yes, quite as I thought," Sherlock said, meaning John's reaction. The woman looked curiously at Sherlock but did not press for an explanation. John fervently hoped Sherlock would not offer one. Fortunately he had already moved on.

"Gwen has taken 221C," Sherlock told John.

"I hear I'm in for some violin practice," she said with a smile.

"You're American," John said in surprise. Sherlock nodded.

"Mrs. Hudson has been telling Gwen about my profession. So she decided not to tell me anything about herself. Test my powers of deduction."

"He's on the west coast right now," Gwen said.

"Say borough," Sherlock demanded. Gwen obligingly repeated it.

"California," Sherlock told her, with conviction. "You're missing a phoneme only those from Washington, Oregon, and California don't have. And you smile and laugh so much you must be from California."

Gwen raised her eyebrows.

"You are good."

John added, "Well, she has a tan, too."

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, no, that's her natural color. Observe the yellow undertones of her skin, the plump lips, and the lack of cartilage in the nose. She obviously has some Asian mixed in, a darker Asian, possibly Vietnamese or Filipino."

A pause.

"Ah, Filipino it is. Your reaction gave it away."

Gwen looked up at John.

"No wonder you blog about it. It's remarkable."

"You read my blog?"

"I had an interesting hour perusing it. Mrs. Hudson told me about that, too."

Sherlock muttered to himself, "If she actually read the whole thing that puts her reading speed in the top 2%."

Gwen gave John a long, measured look.

"Did you shoot the cabbie?"

John jumped a bit and said, "What?" while Sherlock studied her with appraising eyes.

"Why would you ask that?" Sherlock said.

"The blog, it just ends with the shooting. No catching the shooter. No deductions on who it might be. Just some unknown vigilante with a handgun. You didn't even mention how remarkable of a shot that would be."

"One might exclude information for a number of reasons," Sherlock remarked.

Gwen shrugged.

"Maybe. Maybe you have some clue you're holding back because you're still chasing him. But why would you chase down a good guy? So that's not the reason. No, you're protecting someone. Can't be Lestrade. A detective inspector would hardly get in trouble for shooting a murderer. But John…well, he was in war. He could have made that shot. He would have reason to protect you. But he would hardly make a good assistant if he were wading through a murder inquiry. So my money is on John."

John stared at Sherlock. So that was why he liked her.

"So how did you end up here?" John asked, trying to change the subject.

Gwen smiled.

"Ask Sherlock. He's the man with the answers today."

John turned his gaze to Sherlock.

"You're smart. Analytical. Intuitive. Someone is bound to have noticed. You wouldn't have moved continents without the promise of a good, stable job. Compound that with the fact that you've taken a flat in my building, of all places, and I would say Mycroft hired you."

Gwen's eyes were dancing. Sherlock shrugged.

"I'd much prefer that choice. Option number 2 is that you're a plant by Moriarty."

Gwen's eyes swept the two of them.

"Who's Moriarty?"

John sighed.

"Let's eat while them food is still hot. And let's just say if you see a fashionable, oddly voiced maniac around here, stay out of his way."

Gwen snorted.

"Sounds like most of San Francisco."

Sherlock produced plates and utensils while John and Gwen set out the food.

"Does he really keep body parts in the fridge?"

John shuddered slightly.

"Right now it's a bunch of bloody eyeballs."

Gwen let out a small laugh. Just then her phone chimed. She eyed the screen regretfully.

"Sorry, boys, work calls. I'm off. Enjoy your dinner."

And she bounced out of the flat before either could protest.

John eyed Sherlock, who dug into his food with an absent minded expression. This was definitely going to be interesting.

Downstairs, in 221C, Gwen pushed the door closed with a sigh and leaned against it. She typed into her phone: 'Subject contacted and engaged. Awaiting further instructions.'

400 miles away, Jim Moriarty stared off into the distance and smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

Practicing the violin was growing increasingly more difficult. John was a rather indifferent flat mate as far as music went. If Sherlock played when he was watching crap telly, he would just put a pair of headphones on. Or he went downstairs to watch with Mrs. Hudson. And practicing at all hours of the night rarely woke him. Gwen, on the other hand, seemed to notice everything. The night Sherlock decided to add some improv to his favorite partita, Gwen had correctly assessed the bowing technique he had used, and commented on the double stops. The following week, when a grateful client gifted him a Hardanger fiddle, he caught Gwen sitting on the landing, doing paperwork and listening. She flushed red at this.

"Sorry," she stammered, embarrassed. "I was just drawn in. Sympathetic strings are so unique sounding."

Flattered, Sherlock invited her in for a spot of tea and a private audience, but was so taken with her quick wit and vivacity that he never got around to the actual violin playing. In the course of a month, it went from a weekly to almost a daily occurrence. John and Mrs. Hudson didn't understand, of course. They smirked when watching and chuckled to themselves about his crush. Sherlock knew the chemistry of it well enough that he was positive he didn't actually have any feelings for Gwen. He rarely thought of her when she was gone, certainly didn't miss her, and could care less about having any sort of attachment to her. What Sherlock _did_ feel, however, was a sort of relief and camaraderie with her. Not his intellectual equal, perhaps, but there was enough quickness about her that he could have a conversation and not have to wonder what she was missing. And while there were a very select few Sherlock perhaps considered his intellectual equals, they always were criminals or family, meaning Sherlock certainly wasn't comfortable with them, nor did he get much chance to have regular conversations with them. With Gwen, he frequently found himself elaborating on his cases. Sherlock may have been faster to make connections, to leap ahead 4 steps, but Gwen was quite good with picking up patterns. More importantly, she understood the emotion of it all so much more. There were times when the motivation behind something made little sense to Sherlock, but Gwen grasped it more easily and naturally.

John found the entire thing enormously entertaining. He was still Sherlock's assistant in every sense of the word. Gwen worked so much, and such odd hours, Sherlock had never invited her along on a case. But when John was out on a date with one of his never ending string of girlfriends, Gwen was always happy to fetch takeaway and bounce ideas back and forth. Moreover, she was a willing audience, even if she wasn't as complimentary as John. Gwen also didn't appear to have any romantic motives, which was a relief.

Still, there was something about Gwen that didn't quite sit right with Sherlock. He'd asked her once over tea how often Mycroft asked after him.

"All the time," she said with a laugh. "He's quite convinced a number of people and organizations are ready to do you in at any moment. At least he stops asking questions once he's reassured you aren't in any immediate danger."

But she'd kept her eyes averted the rest of the conversation. Sherlock wondered what, exactly, she was telling Mycroft. Not that it mattered, really, what Mycroft knew. He already had plenty of surveillance in place. But Sherlock couldn't help but compare her reaction to that of John, who had immediately and vehemently refused to spy on Sherlock. Although Sherlock had brushed it off at the time, this immediate show of loyalty struck him.

And then there were her working hours. Sherlock's first question was whether she worked in an analytical capacity, or as a spy. Mentally, she seemed quite well suited as an analyst, but she certainly kept the hours of a spy. And it seemed natural that Mycroft would want to place an agent as close to him as possible. Efforts to follow her proved futile, however, as Mycroft always sent a car for her, and he would not look kindly on Sherlock following. Finally, Sherlock had recruited a member of his homeless network to bang on her door at 4 in the morning and shout threats. The answer had been rather clear. Comical, too, although Sherlock felt a bit guilty about that part.

After a minute of shouting, Sherlock slipped the man some money and shooed him away.

"Gwen, are you alright?" he'd called. No response, except for a slight fumbling sound. Sherlock turned the knob, surprised to find it unlocked. As he walked in, a trembling Gwen swung the base of a lamp at him, realizing the instant she swung it that it was Sherlock and not her unknown assailant. Rather hastily, Sherlock ducked as Gwen yanked the lamp back toward her in an effort to not hit Sherlock. It bounced off her forehead with a resounding 'thwack.' Gwen stared at it in shock for a moment as Sherlock tried to hold back his laughter. Then she dropped the lamp and began crying.

"Someone was trying to break in," she managed to choke out. "And I tried calling 911, but that isn't the emergency number here, and I don't know what the emergency number is, and I don't really have any baseball bats or crowbars about, I barely found this lamp and I haven't been trained in any kind of defense."

Sherlock had patted her arm. He frequently saw John do this to distressed victims.

"Locking the door is always a good start. Try 999 next time."

Gwen nodded stared down, tears silently rolling down her cheeks. The spot where she hit her forehead was a brilliant shade of red. Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt.

"Come upstairs," Sherlock told her, pulling lightly on her arm. "I'll put the kettle on, and wake John. He can have a look at your head."

It wasn't a concussion, and the lump had gone down within the week, so no lasting damage. Between forgetting to lock the door, not knowing them emergency number, and hitting herself in the head with a lamp, Sherlock was quite sure Gwen wasn't a spy. Her survival instincts were almost ridiculously bad. But he was fairly sure she wasn't just an analyst either. So what was she?


End file.
